


A Different Place

by charlottechill, megankent



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Happy Ending, M/M, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottechill/pseuds/charlottechill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/megankent/pseuds/megankent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Chris does something he can't not do, Vin can't handle it, not unless Chris can change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maygra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/gifts).



A Different Place  
By Megan Kent & Charlotte C. Hill  
With editing assistance from Sandy K. Herrold

This one's for Maygra, on her birthday, if a little late. Happy birthday, hon!

***

"You don't have to…" Buck's voice trailed away. By any standards--any sane standards--Chris didn't have to. Shouldn't. It was the most basic rule, taught to every cop and agent. _Never give up your gun._ But Helen Anders was a crazy bitch, even when she wasn't stoned out of her mind and cornered like a rat. Right now she was both, and holed up behind a crate of explosives powerful enough to level half a city block. And she'd hauled that poor kid right out of his mother's arms... 

Chris shook his head and smiled slightly at his best friend, then thumbed the safety and handed the Glock over. He took one last deep breath before easing out into the aisle, body tensed for the bullet he knew was coming. 

It was a calculated risk, and he'd done all he could to make sure the result came up in their favor. Chris could feel the team at his back, could practically taste the tension in the air. The radio transmitter in his ear was oddly silent, everyone waiting for the spark of action that would spell the end to this hours-long standoff. 

"Anybody out there?" he barely whispered, just to hear something, anything, over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Buck laughed, low. "Yeah, we're here. You wanna come back and join us? Set a spell?"

"Buck..." Vin's voice, low and hard and filled with a tension Chris understood far too well. _Sorry..._ He took another step, and another, each one bringing him closer to certain peril and possible death. Machine gun or not, they were pretty sure she didn't have armor-piercing rounds in it. Pretty sure. He sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to tug on his vest, which felt like it was trying to climb up into his armpits. He was too damned exposed, but that was the point of this whole fucked up thing, after all. One more step. 

There she was, all wild eyes and tears and insanity, the gun clutched in one hand, the child caught in a stranglehold with the other. _Come on, you crazy bitch. Come on._ She raised the gun without moving any other part of her body, and Chris flinched in spite of himself. _Come on, move! Vin..._ He'd never seen a gun muzzle look so big, even though he was still fifteen feet away.

"Bastard!" she shrieked, and that was the last thing he heard beneath the repeated sound of gunfire. 

Sudden impacts shoved Chris around, knocked him off his feet, each blow separate but somehow rolling into one huge wave of pain: shoulder, chest, chest again, side, back, leg. His vision grayed out, but like they always said: other senses compensate. He heard the boy screaming, and he worried whether it was pain or fear, heard Vin's cursing tinny in his ear, Buck’s shouting that seemed so distant--

He couldn't hear anything more, couldn't see, wasn't even sure his eyes were open, but damn, he could feel it: a throbbing agony that pounded with his heart, compression that made dragging each breath in a struggle, and gritty dirt where his cheek was mashed into the concrete floor--oh, yeah, his body was still there, even if he wished it weren't. He groped with one hand, pushing against the ground. If he was going to die today--and that seemed all too likely--he didn't want to go face down in an abandoned warehouse, with the stink of stale urine in his nose. But his strength was fading with his senses, and his hand flopped back, useless. The pain began to fade. 

Damn. That couldn't be good.

His next breath, hard fought, caught in his throat, his lungs seeming too full, or too small, or just out to lunch right now. He fought for a breath that made him gag, made him cough, and the warm, metallic rush of blood spilled over his tongue, down his chin, more bitter than vomit for what it was taking out of him... the floor was cold, colder than it should have been, and he was pretty sure that the warm places were puddles of his own blood beneath the vest, at his shoulder, down his leg... 

Hands shifted him, touched him in ways and in places he didn't let most people touch. The world was still gray and silent, but a mask slid over his face and the sudden flow of oxygen reignited the pain. Someone blinded him with a bright light, other hands held his head still when he would have pulled away, to search for a familiar face. It wasn't until he was sliding along, marking the skylight windows and exposed girders high above, that he realized they were paramedics, then the flashing lights made sense 

And, as they shoved him in the back of the ambulance, he caught a quick glimpse of Vin. 

Damn. 

***

Vin rubbed both hands over his face, not kidding himself that his friends wouldn't see the telltale signs of tears. But at least the people who didn't know him--and there were suddenly dozens of them swarming the crime scene--might be fooled. He'd barely made it down the fire escape in time to catch a glimpse of Chris just before the ambulance doors closed. He'd been rushed to the hospital where overworked and under-trained doctors would do their best to patch up the results of Larabee's latest idiocy. Maybe they'd even pull it off. This time. But that still left the next time to deal with. And Vin wasn't sure he could endure the next time. 

"You okay?" 

Vin shrugged off the hand, backing up a step lest Josiah try to comfort him again. 

"I'm fine," he hissed, scanning the disorganized order of the scene, his gaze snared by the covered body they were rolling out now. No need to hurry with that one. 

"Whatever you say, Vin." Josiah's eyes were kind, but too knowing. "You know where to find me..." He jerked his head over at the comms van, where JD was busily stowing equipment away. Yeah, he could find them. Hell, he could stand here and spot every one, exactly where they ought to be: Buck was talking --hand gestures small and urgent--to the fire department's bomb disposal expert about the deadly crate; Nathan was comforting the reunited mother and son; and Ezra was documenting everything with the high-end digital camera. Between Ezra, the cops' CSU, and the damn bubble-gum lights on the black and whites, Vin's eyes burned, and he rubbed at them again angrily.

Buck looked up then, and met his eyes across twenty yards of chaos. He saw surprise there, and concern, but turned away quickly, not ready to take it in. 

Everyone was where they'd normally be but him. They'd expect Vin to be riding with Chris, or following along, waiting anxiously for whatever good news the medical staff could offer. Not today. Maybe never again. 

***

Buck watched Vin turn away, sidestepping a couple of uniforms to shove his rifle into the back of the comms van with far less than his usual care. There was no mistaking that he was in a world of hurt and, as Buck watched, JD held out a hand that Vin flinched from like it held a weapon. Oh, yeah. That was bad. 

Buck checked that his phone was on again, now that the crisis was over. Janna Porter, the paramedic from Station Six, had promised to call and give him the latest news as soon as they'd handed Chris off. Until then, there was nothing to do but the job, and right now, that was about cleanup: making sure the explosives were neutralized, the crime scene documented, and the victims (both mother and son) comforted as best they could be. Buck didn't like to think about the therapy in that poor kid's future. 

He glanced at his watch, and then out at the fading sunlight. Four hours could feel like years when you were waiting for a nutcase to blow up you, your friends, and half a city block. And one very small, very frightened little boy. Hell, it had taken them more than an hour to get her to even pick up the phone, to make outrageous demands that everyone--everyone but Helen "Hell-on-Wheels" Anders--knew they could never meet. 

**_flashback_ **

"Tell me that you're not even considering exposing yourself to that lunatic!" 

Buck was glad that Ezra was making his argument for him, even though he knew Chris wouldn't give way. Couldn't. Hell, he'd toyed with popping him one, putting him down just long enough to let somebody else make that walk in Chris's place, or come up with a better solution that would still get the kid out alive. Maybe Chris was right, maybe there wasn't another way, but that didn't mean what he was doing was all right with any of them. Buck met Chris's eyes squarely, seeing too much and too little in them, and turned away. Chris was going to do it, and not a thing in this world would stop him. So Buck stepped up, and put a hand on Chris's shoulder just once, squeezing gently, maybe finally saying goodbye. 

"I'll be outside," he muttered, and walked away. Even though he tried to avoid his teammates' eyes, he didn't miss JD's shock and Vin's anger. Well. He'd just have to deal with that later, after tonight, after lady luck decided whether today was Chris's time to go. 

"Buck." 

He turned at Chris's voice, surprised. "Yeah?"

"Get back in here," he ordered, and he looked a little pissed himself. "We need to get everything straight." 

Buck looked at Chris again, took in Vin's barely perceptible relief and JD's confusion, Ezra's smoothly blank face and Josiah's that nearly matched it. Nathan looked angry. Buck couldn't blame any of them. "Sure, Chris," he said easily, "whatever you say. Where do you want me?"

And just like that, Chris broke it down, acting like it was a regular job, a reasonable plan, his only concession a kevlar vest underneath the sweatshirt he'd pulled on to hide its bulk. Vin's sweatshirt. Chris didn't ask, just held out a hand and said, "I need a sweatshirt," and looked around at them all. "Vin?" he snapped when nobody volunteered, and Vin stripped his shirt off and slid his jacket over bare shoulders, covered now in the undershirt he'd worn and his ATF windbreaker. "Okay," Chris said, turning to the Sharpie-marked wall, "Buck, you're here behind this last pile of crates. Vin, I want you up on the roof, get your best angle through the skylight and let us know when you're in place. JD, you make sure every other sharpshooter's in position and give us the green light. Josiah, Nate, stick close but stay out of the line of fire. If this works, somebody'll need to snatch the kid."

And it sure as hell wouldn't be Chris. 

Five minutes later when Vin put his fist into the drywall of the warehouse's little office cum headquarters, Buck figured it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. If it got better. _Selfish prick._ But it wasn't news to him, that Chris would seriously consider something like this. Hell, he felt sorry for the rest of the guys who'd trusted Chris to have a little more stake in his own survival. They just didn't understand him like Buck did. Not even Vin, poor bastard. 

**_the present_ **

Chris woke up in a world of hurt, a little surprised that he'd awakened at all. A cannula was shoved up his nose, and somebody had stuck a poker into his shoulder, a couple in his chest, and couple more into his right thigh. He thought he might puke from the pain, but just tightening his belly muscles to groan hurt so much that he figured he'd asphyxiate before his body managed to force anything out. 

Then he coughed, and it all got worse. "Hey there," a familiar voice whispered... but it was the wrong voice. Damn, it was the wrong voice.

"Bu..." 

"Yeah," Buck said. He sounded tired. "I'm here. Didn't think I'd let you go without saying goodbye, did you?" 

"Nn..." he tried, but couldn't get the vowel out. 

"Nobody's sure yet who actually got her; she was pretty much Swiss cheese by the time everybody stopped shooting."

"Vi..."

"Yeah, I'm thinking he was the last one still firing. They got the boy out, Nate had him in his arms almost before her body hit the concrete, so you got what you wanted there, pard."

"Where--" he coughed, and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears.

"You want me to call a nurse?" Buck's voice sounded concerned, and then something cold and damp wiped at the wetness on his face. "Is it pain doing that, buddy?"

"Nnoo." Damn, it hurt to breathe. Hurt to think, hurt to let his heart pump blood into all those damaged places. He had to say no though, even if it wasn't true, because if Buck got a doctor in here, they'd pump him full of drugs and he wouldn't know what was going on. 

"Liar," Buck said softly, sounding amused.

"Damn ... it!" Chris paused to let the next wave wash over him, and gripped his fist tight to try and get some of the agony under control. "Vin?"

"He's not here."

"Where--"

"He's not here, Chris. Leave it at that."

That was bad. That was worse than the feel of the bullet holes in him. Before he could try to get more words out, Buck continued on.

"Stop trying to talk, Chris." It hit him then, suddenly, how tired Buck sounded; really tired, not sat-up-all-night-tending-a-friend tired, and Chris didn't want to know. "Vin isn't here, he hasn't been here, and he's not coming. Your fault, so don't go getting riled, you'll just set off the machines and then you'll get the docs in here anyway." 

More tears spilled, and plenty of them were pain; he could hide in that, take some comfort from the fact that the greater shock was muted by his wounds. 

"That's it, just keep breathing and you'll be all right. You really riled him, Chris. And I'll tell you, nobody blames him. Hell." A little laugh. "Everybody's pissed at you, like you wouldn't believe."

It didn't matter, not if the kid was alive and the woman was dead. It couldn't matter.

"That's right," he heard Buck's voice, from far away this time, and felt that cool damp whatever-it-was on his face again, "just go back to sleep. I'm gonna fetch the doc now."

It was dark when he woke again. He was pretty sure it had been daylight before, broad daylight, and now the room was so dim he couldn't see across it. He hurt like hell, like the doctors still had scalpels poking into him everywhere, but that was to be expected. Surgery always hurt worse than injuries, and the injuries had hurt plenty all on their own. 

He tried to make out who was in the chair this time, but whoever it was had curled up and all he could see was the top of a shadowed head. JD maybe. Ezra even. Too short for Buck or Josiah, and too light for Nathan... It couldn't be Vin, not if what Buck had said was true. It wouldn't be.

He needed it to be though, and he lay there, eyes wide open, hoping to adjust to the dimness enough, hoping that head would rise and it'd be Vin. Not making a sound because he was so sure it wasn't. 

A few minutes later, the body stirred, and Ezra lifted his head. Chris closed his eyes before his man stood, and felt Ezra draw closer. Ezra wouldn't touch him, nothing so banal as that. And Chris wasn't really surprised when Ezra started talking, but what he said, now that was a shock. "Bastard. You unforgivable bastard." It was shocking enough, in fact, that he opened his eyes and looked up. But Ezra's face was smooth as ice, betraying nothing of the emotion in his tone, betraying nothing at all. 

"How's..." he coughed. "How's everybody else?"

"Fine," Ezra said. "Do you need anything? The nurse?"

Chris shook his head, regretting it immediately. 

Without a word Ezra moved back to his chair and sat back down.

Buck hadn't been kidding. They were pissed at him.

_Five days later_

Chris thought he'd start climbing the walls before they finally let him out. Of his friends and teammates, only Buck and Josiah would actually talk to him. Nathan lectured, on and on. Ezra barely spoke, unless it was to ask after his needs or answer his direct questions. JD kept starting sentences and then stopping, like it was all just too much for his brain, so much so that Chris finally told Buck to keep the kid away. Too easy, this tranked up, this stressed out, for him to say the wrong thing to JD and regret it later. 

And Vin wasn't there at all. He didn't answer his phone when Chris called from Buck's cell, and didn't return the message Chris left. It was like he'd disappeared from the face of the earth, and Chris wasn't sure he could stand that. 

But they did let him out, and he thought that would be a relief until he got the run-down from the staff nurse and then the doctor and then, of course, Nathan. Easing his way carefully, very fucking carefully, off the edge of the hospital bed, as much to prove to himself and everyone else that he wouldn't need a bedpan at home as to get the nurse to shut up, he cast one guilty look at his oldest and most irritating friend. "Looks like you pulled the short straw," he grated.

Buck just laughed. "You really think any of these other guys would even consider putting up with you? You're lucky your insurance covers the nurse's drive out every afternoon, or I'd leave you in here too."

Chris grimaced and clutched at his side. "Funny. Laugh it up."

"Bet your ass I will, Chris," Buck muttered, far more sober now. "Not like you c'n catch me or stop me now, is it?"

"I've still got my gun," he challenged, but he wasn't sure which of them he was kidding; he wasn't sure he could hold one up yet, and if he could, that his vision would clear enough to let him aim.

"No you don't."

"What?"

Buck touched his shoulder and he looked up, right into the pissed-off flare of Buck's eyes. "No you don't, I said."

"If you've--" he tried to start, but Buck shoved him gently, but still plenty hard to make him lean back against the bed.

"Shut up, Chris. I'm not in the mood for it either right now."

He shut up. 

And he suffered, and he walked every day, from his room to the john, to the kitchen, most days out onto the back porch where he'd carefully lower himself into a chair and will the telephone to ring. It never did. After several days he actually wondered if Buck had turned off all the ringers, or disconnected the line, but it worked just fine when called from his cell, and it began to sink in, trickling like water droplets off a hanging rock, just how angry his people were. 

"Hey, Buck!" he yelled, right then and there. 

"What?" Buck yelled back from somewhere deep in the house. 

"What'd my parents say?"

"I didn't tell 'em!"

Fuck. Really angry. 

***

Another week passed, the second that Chris had been home, and Buck was calling on the last of his reserves. Chris had put up with plenty from him, he knew that; he'd reminded himself, in specific detail, of every drunk he'd slept off up here, of every apology Chris had made to Sarah or his parents or their co-workers about the fact that Buck was going to be Buck and folks had best not waste their time trying to change that. An old photo album had pictures of him with casts on both legs, swinging around the backyard on a walker, and another of him riding the lawnmower that Chris had kitted up for hand control. Probably so he didn't have to listen to him. Buck wondered if he could retool the mower for Chris now, just to get him out of the house....

"Buck!" At least the puncture in his lungs was healing up okay.

"What?" he hollered back. 

"Did you hear from Vin?"

Buck sighed heavily, and thought about paying the diner over on SR123 to deliver breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next few days. He pushed himself up off his bed and walked out back, determined to have it out once and for all. And then go home. "I told you I haven't heard from Vin. If you want to talk to him, you can call him yourself." He saw from Chris's grimace that he'd tried that, and it hadn't worked. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why.

"Aww, Chris. Tell me you didn't make an ass of yourself." He could see it now, Chris trying to convince Vin, or more likely his answering machine, that if he'd just be reasonable, see things Chris's way...

"Of course not. I just--"

"Did the same thing that pissed him off in the first place?" Chris ought to count himself lucky that Vin hadn't had the phone company block Chris's number. Yet. 

"He doesn't understand--" Chris's voice trailed away. "I had to--" Chris ran a frustrated hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled and standing on end. 

"I know," Buck interrupted before Chris could start down that path again. And he did know, but the knowledge had been hard-earned. Vin, as quick as his attraction to Chris had been, as deep as their relationship had grown, lacked Buck's sheer volume of experience. "But that don't matter right now."

"But--"

Buck carried right on, "What matters is this. Is this the way you want things to be?" 

"You know it isn't." Chris sighed and stared blindly at the wall. Buck didn't have to guess who he was seeing.

"So, are you going to do whatever it takes to get him back?" 

Chris was a stubborn man, no two ways about it. But normally he wasn't stupid. Buck waited, watching thoughts and emotions chase across Chris's face. He knew, before Chris even opened his mouth, that he wasn't going to like the result.

"If he can't take--"

"Chris." Buck spoke softly, but with enough intensity to break Chris's rhythm. "Would you have let me take that walk?" 

He knew the answer. They both did. But he watched Chris's mouth work, watched him try to voice the lie that would let him maintain the moral high ground in all this. No fucking way in hell would Chris let one of his men walk into a nutcase's gunsight. Not because the boy didn't matter, or the amount of prime Denver real estate she might have flattened. Because it was a losing proposition, either way. They'd been more than lucky; they'd been truly blessed to save that little boy. 

"I--"

Buck finally took pity on him. "You used your seniority. You made a decision that you wouldn't have if she'd wanted the hide of anyone else on the planet. Most of all, you rode roughshod over all of us. You have a group of men who'd follow you to hell on nothing more than your say-so. By your actions, you as much as told them that their opinions weren't worth shit, and their concern--hell, their love--for you wasn't worth much more.

"Now, some of them are gonna get over that easier than others. But Vin-- Well, ole Vin he don't give up on much. You pushed him pretty hard. He had to face giving you up, one way or the other. I don't think he liked where he ended up." 

Buck watched that news settle, watched again as Chris chewed over the recent past. And maybe, this time, something was going to give. 

"Aww, shit." Chris barely whispered it, beating his fist rhythmically on the arm of the sofa. "I really fucked up, huh?" 

"Oh, yeah." 

Chris shot him a look that clearly said 'Thanks for nothing.' But what were old friends for? 

"What am I gonna do now?"

"If you're half the man I think you are, you're going to apologize, and hope like hell he forgives you. If he doesn't, I see a lot of groveling in your future, son." 

Chris groaned, dropping his head back against the sofa and resting his good arm over his face. 

"I see my work here is done." Chris flipped him off without even uncovering his eyes. Buck slapped him across the back of his head, then gathered up his jacket and keys. "I'll be out tomorrow. I'll call before I come, in case you need me to pick up anything."

"Thanks, Buck."

Buck grinned. "No problem. You just remember this from now on when I show up late to work."

***

It took him almost an hour, and a stiff scotch that he knew shouldn't be combined with pain meds, to make himself pick up the phone. He shouldn't have been as surprised as he was that Vin didn't answer. 

The tape was old and scratchy, and Vin's voice unmistakable. He hadn't changed the message since Chris had known him: "Tanner. Leave a message." Eloquently short. To the point. And no promises about calling back. 

After the beep, Chris sat there listening to the dead air for what must have been a minute, because the damn machine hung up on him. He hit redial, and listened to the message again, wondered if Vin were out, or just screening. 

_Beep_. "Uh, hi. Yeah, it's me." He paused then, hoping that maybe Vin would answer. If he was there. If he was willing. "I need to talk to you. I need to tell you some things. I need--" _Click._

"Fuck!" He hit redial again, and even Vin's short message seemed too long to wait this time. "Vin. I'm sorry. I was an ass. Call me when you get this, okay?" He didn't know what else to say. "Uh..." _Click._

"Damn it, Tanner!" He hit redial one more time, and almost dropped the reciver when the phone picked up on the second ring. Silence.

"Vin?" There was an interminable pause.

"Yeah." Vin's voice, raspy as ever and still tight with underlying anger, was as comforting as a warm hand to his neck, wiping away tension. 

"Uh, I guess you heard..." It had to be a good sign, right? Vin had picked up, not let him spend the rest of the night trying to repair his mistake in one-minute sound bites. 

"I heard. I think you need to expand on that 'I was an ass' part." Another time, in other circumstances, there would have been a hint of wry humor in his voice. Chris could picture the twist to his half-smile. But there was no irony tonight. Vin was serious. 

"Yeah. You're right." Chris sucked in a breath, trying to figure out how to say everything he needed to, with Vin so far away and angry. "I'm sorry. Really sorry. And I miss you." 

The words hung unanswered between them. Finally Chris tried again. "Can we talk?"

"I'm listening." Yeah. That was a big help. 

"I thought... Maybe in person..." Maybe if he was in the same room he could find some way to make the connection. Grunting, he heaved himself off the sofa, only to remember he was in a bit of a bind. "I'd, um, come there, but I'm not supposed to drive--"

"When did a little thing like that ever stop you?" Chris winced at the bitterness in Vin's voice.

"Buck took the Ram," he was forced to admit. "I could get a cab, I guess." It would cost him a damn fortune, and he'd probably have to lie about where he was headed. There was no way in hell a suburban cabbie was going to pick up another fare in Purgatorio. 

Vin's sigh echoed down the line. "Okay. I'll be there in under an hour." 

"Thanks." He couldn't really think of anything else to say. "I'll be here." 

Vin snorted, and then hung up. Chris was left to listen to the empty silence of the line, his house, his life. 

***

"Damn, Tanner. I don't know what kind of idiot you are..." Vin muttered angrily, dragging his leather jacket from the back of the chair and slamming the door behind him. It was late, and damn cold out for all it was late spring. There was plenty of activity in the building, cold or not, teens and young couples, on the stairs and the landings. Vin trotted by, his boots echoing in the tight stairwell, and his expression must have been pretty clear, because no one even tried to start a conversation. 

He sighed as he settled into the driver's seat of the Jeep, just as glad to have forty-five minutes of time to himself, time to ponder what Chris had said, what he ought to say in return. He was in love with Chris. That was never in doubt. But he was stumped what to do with that fact, when the man he loved could be a real son-of-a-bitch. 

Hell, that wasn't even fair. He'd always pretty much known Chris could be an asshole when push came to shove. He'd just not ever expected to be the one getting shoved, and he sure as shit didn't like the way it felt. Maybe if he were more like Buck... If nothing else, their relationship had stood the test of time and troubles. Vin shook his head. He couldn't even figure out _how_ that relationship worked, much less emulate it.

He and Chris would have to find their own way, or he'd have to find his way alone. Not too long ago--

"Hey, watch out!" Vin had to step on the brakes hard to avoid rear-ending an oblivious kid on an over-powered rice bike, and then received an obscene gesture for his thanks. "Shoulda just flattened him." There was a time in the past when Vin might well have followed the guy, dragged him off his bike, and beaten some respect into him. But time--and Vin--had changed. Adults didn't do things like that.

But he'd wanted to beat more than a little sense into Chris, couldn't believe him when he'd said he planned to walk out in front of that woman's gun, Kevlar or no. It was insanity, as whacked out crazy as their perp. Chris would get himself and the boy killed, and probably everyone else once Anders blew the C-4. Worst of all, he wouldn't listen to them when they tried to argue some sense into him. 

Vin still couldn't believe that Buck hadn't taken their side, had barely said a word as his best friend prepared to walk to his death. Vin wasn't sure he'd forgiven Buck, just yet. Maybe Buck's voice would have been the one Chris heard, listened to. Maybe then he wouldn't have-- 

But he did. Just walked right out there and let that crazy woman fill him full of lead. It had taken two seconds from start to finish--an interminable time, long enough for an expert to fire more than a hundred rounds through a machine pistol. Lucky for Chris the woman wasn't an expert. Lucky for Chris that she'd barely gotten off a dozen shots in those two seconds, and that plenty of them had missed their target.

That small movement had been all Vin needed. Just the tiniest window between the boy and the crate of explosives. He'd fired, twice, heard other shots, seen her drop. Saw the boy, spattered with her blood, standing frozen, his mouth wide in terror. And then, when the work was done, he'd scanned back with the scope, tracing her line of fire to where Chris was down and still. Blood spread from under him, and was splattered into his hair. He wasn't moving. Vin watched until he saw him twitch...his hand, nothing else. But it meant Chris wasn't dead. Not yet. 

The fact that he wasn't dead would prove him right, would justify him taking that outrageous risk--in Chris's mind, at least. Vin didn't agree. "Asshole." That fact wasn't in question, either. Not even Buck would defend Chris's behavior. But he'd tried, in his own unsubtle way, to relieve some of the tension of the last week. He was even gaining ground with Josiah and Ezra. Poor JD had such a case of hero-worship that he probably thought Chris's shit didn't stink. Nathan was still damn furious, though. And furious didn't begin to cover how Vin had felt, perched on a rooftop, anticipating when--not if--his lover would be shot. 

The freeway traffic was thin, and Vin gave into the urge to really open up the Jeep. The wind rattled the plastic windows and canvas roof, sneaking in through the cracks to chill him further. 

Chris's exit came up too soon. Vin really didn't have a clue what to say, or how this was going to turn out. He couldn't even decide exactly what he wanted. For it never to have happened? Hell, yes. For Chris to be someone different than who he was? Sometimes. To never have met the man in the first place? 

Vin was stumped on that one. Two weeks ago, he would have said meeting Chris was one of the best days of his life. It had certainly led to some great things, things he'd never really expected to have: a group of friends to ride the river with, a job he was passionate about, a lover beyond his wildest dreams. 

And in less than a quarter hour, Chris had trashed it all. "Asshole." It was true. Chris had admitted it. All that was left was for Vin to decide where they'd go from here. Could he trust Chris's promises? Would Chris even promise to be different? Would Vin accept it, if he did?

Vin pulled into the drive, gunning the engine enough to spray gravel out into the road. Chris hated that. Chris paid for it, the stones and the grading, and for half a mile of driveway that cost didn't come cheap. Too bad he wouldn't see it until he was driving again. The jeep slewed left and right, and then steadied into the center of the lane. Maybe this was all just a momentary skid: only lasting a split second in real time, stretched to infinite slowness by urgency and adrenaline. 

He pulled up next to the deck, surprised to see Chris waiting for him on the porch swing. 

"Hey--" he offered, nodding up. Not yet willing to climb up there. 

"Thanks for coming." Chris didn't smile, and Vin was just as glad. 

He bit back a snide comment about owing Chris that much, and just nodded. "We going inside?" He was cold if Chris wasn't. 

"Yeah. Sure. Uh--" It was painful to watch Chris's slow struggle to rise, to envision the wounds and bruises hidden by dark clothes. 

Vin stepped up then, holding the door for Chris, holding his breath as he passed, closer than he'd been to his lover since just before he'd climbed up on that rooftop. 

***

Somehow, getting Vin across the threshold seemed like a victory. They were in the same room for the first time since the warehouse, alone for the first time since that morning. If Chris didn't manage to find the right words, to get Vin to stay-- He didn't know what he'd do. He had doubts about the effectiveness of Buck's groveling plan. 

Chris led the way into the den, where the fire Buck had started hours ago was down to glowing coals. 

"You want a drink?" Familiar. Easy. But not tonight. Vin shook his head, and then strode to sliding doors, staring out into the darkness. He hadn't even taken his jacket off yet. Chris sighed, and eased himself down onto the sofa. 

"I'm sorry." 

Vin's shoulders twitched, climbing toward his ears. Any other day, any other conversation, and Chris would have kneaded that tension away.

"You said that already."

"I want you to know I mean it." He did now, hadn't at first. But he'd had plenty of time since Buck left to listen to a whole lot of emptiness inside and out. "I should have found another way." 

"Damn straight." Vin spun back to face the room, and Chris was surprised to see his eyes glittering with tears instead of anger. Or maybe a little of both. 

"Let me make it up to you," he offered, wondering what he could do. What Vin might want. 

"How?" Vin's voice, low and raspy, vibrated in the air between them. 

Chris opened his mouth, ready to offer a range of amendments, promises, plans...

"How were you going to make it up to me when you were dead, Chris? I don't think even you could pull that one off." As Chris watched, a tremor invaded Vin, rolling like a wave through his body, until he was shaking like it was December instead of April. 

"I'm not--" Vin's eyes blazed, and Chris swallowed the rest of that argument. "I'm sorry." It seemed to be the only thing he could say. 

"You're sorry. And that's supposed to just make everything better." Vin ran his hands into his already wild hair, gripping handfuls and pulling; it had to hurt like hell. "Well sorry just don't cut it, Chris." 

Vin moved then, fast, silent, and oh so deadly. Less than a second later, Chris was staring down the blued barrel of a very familiar pistol, held steady in hands that no longer shook. "You want to die that bad, Chris? So bad you just had to walk right out in front of a lunatic with an Uzi?" 

He'd have smiled, if he wasn't sure of how much that would piss Vin off. That this man thought Chris would be afraid of him, or anything he might do? It seemed insane. Chris was safer at this end of that gun barrel than he was setting a horse, or jogging on the shoulder of the highway. He was safer here than almost anyplace he'd ever known. 

Chris forced his eyes away from the mouth of the barrel and up to Vin's face. _Damn, I never meant to cause you pain like that._ And then he said it aloud, "I never meant to hurt you." 

"You didn't mean-- You didn't mean?" Vin spun away then, and the pistol was gone just as fast as it had appeared. "What did you think watching you walk out and get killed was going to do to me? Make me feel like sending out for pizza? Jeezus, Chris!" 

He couldn't stand it any more. He had to reach out, to ease this somehow, to ease Vin. 

"Don't," Vin warned, from across the room again, with his back turned. "Don't even fucking try to touch me. Not when you wouldn't listen to a word I said. To anything any of us said." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Well, sorry ain't good enough." 

Chris collapsed back against the sofa. Not good enough. Never enough. Not fast enough, strong enough, or smart enough. And how much of that was why he was willing to risk everything on a one-in-a-million chance to save this boy, this time? 

"You don't understand," he said, his throat dry and raw. Anesthetic, he tried to blame it on the anesthetic, but he knew better.

"Goddamned right I don't understand," Vin said, cold.

Cold outside, hair windblown... Cold inside, in a way Vin had never been to him. Chris was so tired.

Vin was three steps down the hallway before Chris realized what was happening. 

"I'm gonna tell you something," he said quietly, trusting Vin as he might not have trusted any other person, ever, to stop. To wait. To want to hear what he had to say, and he waited, listening to the silence in the hallway, the absence of movement that meant Vin hadn't kept walking, hadn't opened the door. "I'm gonna tell you something," he said again, a little louder, "something only Buck understands, but you're gonna have to understand it, Vin, or..." or what? Or we're through? Chris wouldn't make that statement, wouldn't accept it if anyone else made it either. "...or I don't know how you'll put up with me in the long run." He waited, hoping for a sound, a step back toward the room. Nothing.

"That kid... That little boy..." he sniffed. Idiot. Sniveling old fool. "Sarah died right away, Vin. Quick. She couldn't be there for Adam, and she would have wanted to be, no matter how hard it was. I was there. He was in so much pain..." Chris paused, swallowed again, and thought he heard a board squeak, wondered which way Vin was moving. "He was in so much pain and there was nothing I could do for him. You understand that? Nothing." What the hell was he saying? "That kid, Vin. He was healthy and whole and five years old, and there was nothing wrong with him and he had a life in front of him. And that life was worth more than mine to me. That's it; it was worth more than mine to me because there was nothing--" he had to stop, to swallow, to swipe at the wet corners of his eyes. He'd thought himself cried out, years ago. He'd thought he'd evaporated all the tears in whiskey fumes and rage and railing against Buck's good temper.

"That little kid wasn't Adam," Vin said, neutral, from the doorway; Chris hadn't heard him come back.

"Nah," Chris said, looking up, seeing the pain here that maybe he couldn't fix, either. "If he had been, I'd have walked out there naked. No flak jacket, no back up, no nothing. You understand?"

"No," Vin said after a minute. "Hell no, I don't." Then Vin sighed, and paced back over to the window. Chris waited, watching the tense shoulders, waited out whatever Vin was thinking or feeling, until suddenly his lover twitched and turned, then slid out of his jacket and sat down in the chair farthest from Chris. "So maybe you'd better explain it."

He'd have preferred to grovel. Any time. But he opened his mouth and he talked, for what seemed like hours, about his old life, his old love. His child. He talked about the pediatric ICU, and oxygen, and life support, and Buck's shadow when it would fall over a machine or the foot of Adam's hospital bed. He talked about how Buck would manhandle him out of the room just to get him to wash up at a sink, or rinse off for five minutes in a shower somewhere. 

He talked about how he couldn't let them turn off the machines, and about how Buck had finally talked him into waiving the decision, leaving it to the doctors, about how Buck had literally sat on him, holding him down in the chair, eyes boring into him and threatening who knew what if he yelled the magic word "no." 

He talked until he was hoarse, eyes burning from staring at the red coals in the fireplace, heart clenched tight with the memory of it all. And when he finally wound down, he looked Vin's way. "So yeah," he said quietly. "You've got damaged goods. And maybe I'll do it again, Vin, I can't promise..."

"You have to." 

"I _can't_."

"Then you have to relieve yourself of duty if something like this ever comes up again. Write the fucking letter tonight, Chris. Take yourself off the case, because--you think there was nothing you could do for your son? There'll be plenty of times when there's nothing you can do, and suicide attempts can't be on the program. You understand?"

Buck had said something like that once, a long time ago, and Chris had tried to hit him for it. He'd ended up on the ground, face pressed into dirt, Buck's full weight pinning him and Buck's angry voice in his ear, "You keep trying that shit, Chris, you're gonna be on your own, you hear me? I am not gonna let you drag us both down." Chris had heard him, and accepted that Buck wouldn't follow if he went too far off the deep end. Somehow, he'd been relieved not to have that responsibility for his friend.

But this was different. "Buck said the same thing," he admitted.

"And you didn't listen."

Chris shook his head. "Couldn't. Not then. Not from him."

Vin nodded, as if he understood something that was lost on Chris. "That's why he doesn't argue with you, when you get so damned stupid? He knows it won't do any good?"

Chris shrugged. "I reckon so."

Vin shook his head, and his hands went right back up to his hair, but this time he just pushed it off his forehead. "I ain't Buck, Chris," he said, low. "And I hold a different place in your life than he does. And I won't take no for an answer. You understand?"

Something tight-held in his gut broke suddenly, and Chris almost snapped back in his seat at the release of the tension. He didn't get to be just himself anymore. He wouldn't have done this to Sarah... "I get it."

"So you're gonna write that letter, or I'm gonna write one."

"Yeah," he breathed, his lungs filling all the way down to his belly, down into that place that had been so tightly bound just seconds ago. "I'll write it."

It was possibly the first right thing he'd said since 'I'm going in,' and he was gratified to see some of the tension ebb from Vin's muscles in response.

"Guess I'll help myself to that drink now." 

"Yeah." 

There was a drawer in the coffee table, a repository for the crap that always seemed to accumulate. Chris fished out a yellow legal pad and an old ballpoint, and started writing. He was surprised how easily it came. He was painfully honest, detailing what he believed the risk factors to be, when his judgment couldn't be trusted, which of his people would be best suited to take up command in his place in an array of different circumstances. It ran almost three pages longhand, and he scrawled his signature at the end before offering it across to Vin. 

It was more painful to watch Vin reading it, to try and read each tiny frown or forehead scrunch. But as he flipped pages, the guarded expression gave way to a thoughtful one, and when Vin looked up, it was with that familiar warmth in his eyes that Chris so needed to see. "Looks good," Vin grunted, setting it carefully down on the table between them. 

"You sure?" he asked, wondering if maybe he'd double-dipped into his pain meds, because he felt incredibly light right now, and far too happy for a man who'd almost lost the second great love of his life. "Nothing needs adding?" 

Vin just grinned and shook his head. "Asshole."

Well, he sure as hell couldn't deny that. 

"You mind putting a couple more logs on the fire? I'm not supposed to lift things yet."

"Damn, Larabee, how long are you gonna milk them injuries, anyway?" Vin asked, flippant, and Chris laughed in spite of himself, in spite of the pain as various parts tugged and pulled the wrong way. 

"I reckon I get a few more days out of it, anyway. As long as Buck thinks he can steal my truck, I get to claim disability." 

"It'll be back tomorrow," Vin said soberly, and Chris met his partner's eyes again, reading everything in them.

"Yeah."

"And I'll stick around until you're better, make sure you don't fall down the stairs or starve the horses."

"Yeah."

"And maybe I'll stick around for awhile after," Vin said, still smiling.

"Yeah." Forever would be about right. 

Vin moved to the woodbin then and Chris stopped him before he could rekindle the fire. 

"Vin? Forget that. Let's go to bed."

Vin looked worried for a second, then startled. "No fucking way, Chris," he warned. "I put you to bed, but that's it."

"Okay. Long as you come too."

Vin looked wary, like he wasn't sure if Chris was making innuendo or not, but he nodded slowly. "Just to sleep."

"Sure," Chris said, affable. "I'm not up for anything else anyway, Vin. What the hell do you think I am, Superman?"

But later, when they lay naked atop the bedspread, Chris found the one relatively painless position on his side and tugged Vin close, and as Vin settled down Chris trailed his hand down the lean line of ribs and squeezed gently at the narrow vee of waist. "Chris..."

"Just shut up and come here."

"I'm not gonna let you hurt your--"

"Please," he interrupted. "Just shut up and come here." 

He couldn't say he was much good, frankly. Between the injuries and the narcotics he couldn't even get it up, but Vin could. Couldn't not. Chris eased him up onto his knees and then over him so that Vin straddled his thighs. He could lie on his back that way, and look up at that cascade of hair that fell all around, drawing shadows across the handsome features, so they could kiss at Vin's pace and the smell of shampoo and open air could blanket them both. 

"You're crazy," Vin panted after awhile, because Chris's right arm worked just fine and his left put him in good enough stead to trail fingers over Vin's flank, back and forth, an even, steady rhythm that matched the motion of his hand between them. 

_Yeah, I'm crazy,_ he thought, amused at the idea. He'd never deny it. But crazy or no, his sluggish body felt awash with joy as their eyes met and locked, as Vin trembled and cursed above him, as he felt that beautiful body stiffen as tension tightened everything in the man, and he caught himself on a laughing breath when Vin grunted and came all over his belly. Yeah, he was crazy. And as Vin settled down beside him, he knew that crazy was right where he wanted to be. 

A few minutes later, he jerked his head up before they could drop off to sleep. "We should get under the covers," he muttered. 

"You cold?" Vin asked, half-asleep too by the sound of it.

"No. Just, Buck's coming up tomorrow and I don't want to hear his shit if he walks in on us."

Vin squirmed a little closer to him and hooked one leg over both of Chris's. "Not our fault he stole your truck," he muttered. 

Well technically it was, but Chris wasn't about to tell Vin that. And Buck--hell, if Buck wasn't too embarrassed--and Chris was hard pressed to imagine that--he'd just add this scene to his arsenal of shit to torment Chris with in later years. To torment them both. That was okay, he thought, turning his head and burying his nose in Vin's hair. Buck deserved at least that, for putting up with him. 

The HAPPY End

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with Megankent, with great pleasure, for Maygra's birthday.


End file.
